


Thinking of You

by Sammy_who_are_these_people



Category: Glee
Genre: Drama, Dream Sex, Dreams, Infidelity, M/M, Romance, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sammy_who_are_these_people/pseuds/Sammy_who_are_these_people
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every one of Kurt's crushes started with a dream: first Finn (and you know how that ended) then Sam (which was more lust than anything, what with the boy's inviting mouth) and most recently Blaine (which is actually working out.) But suddenly he's dreaming about a Mohawk...which, probably won't end well for anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thinking of You

**Author's Note:**

> This is set somewhat immediately after "New York" (2x22) and titled after Katy Perry's song. I'd planned to continue the story, but it's been so long that now I have to go back to rethink the plot. It might be a while before it's updated, so I just mark it as a 'Complete...with Potential'.

Later, he would convince himself that the dream had been an accident. After all, anything involving _him_ would have previously been considered a nightmare. But for some reason, this time had been different.

As it sometimes happened, the last thing on Kurt's mind before he'd drifted off became the focus of his dream. In this case, it had been the back of someone's head – the same _someone_ whose head he'd been staring at as consciousness slowly slipped from his grasp. It had the shape of, well, a head. His eyes traced the backs of the shells that were the person's ears, as well as the familiar shape of the person's Mohawk.

 _What a horrid haircut_ , he'd been thinking, eyes lazily following the vertical stripe of dark hair along the person's tanned scalp. He'd always hated that Mohawk. For years it had been a symbol, in Kurt's mind, of all the torment he'd ever been put through. It meant unnecessary taunts, unwanted slushie-facials, and unsanitary visits to the foul pit that was the school's dumpster. It meant physically painful shoves into unforgiving hard lockers, and emotionally painful attempts to mask his suffering. The single strip of hair meant years of inner turmoil and loneliness. It was a threat to his safety, and to his happiness. It meant fear. Not to mention it was perhaps the tackiest hairstyle he'd ever laid eyes on.

But sitting there on his way back to perhaps the tackiest town in Ohio, Kurt was too mentally worn to gather his usual contempt for the haircut in front of him, or even for the owner of the mohawk. He'd been on an adrenaline-high ever since touching down in New York City almost a week prior, but now the thought of returning to his comparably rinky-dink hometown as well as the weight of the loss at Nationals caused Kurt to crash hard. The words of his complimentary "Sky" magazine had begun to swim before his eyes. So he'd closed the magazine on his lap, leaned his head back carefully to avoid hair-damage, and allowed his mind to wander while his eyes focused on the back of that _someone's_ head. Kurt had tried to gather his usual apprehension and disgust, but he was just so tired…it was easier to just stare.

After a while, his eyes distorted the Mohawk so that it appeared less sharp and threatening, which should have been impossible. On the contrary; the short dark strands that had been teased into faux-spikiness actually seemed pretty soft, like fur. He imagined how it would feel to run his hand through the strip of hair, petting the person's head as he would a dog. Haha…petting the person. It was kind of a funny image, and Kurt was distantly aware of the small, delirious giggle that bubbled from his lips. And that was it; he fell asleep.

The Mohawk followed him to his dreams.

As dreams usually go, he was aware that he was dreaming when the images started. But at the same time, he wasn't. He wasn't aware that he'd been floating in blank unconsciousness until the first scene actually started, and he was naturally disoriented until his dream-eyes focused on the picture presented to him. The Mohawk.

In his dream, his first instinct was to reach out and pet it – an urge born from his curious thoughts right before he'd fallen asleep – and so he did. The hair was soft against his skin as his nimble fingers slid easily through it, just like fur. Silky. His fingertips tingled with a warm and fuzzy feeling, and he was suddenly flooded with a tender giddiness that he couldn't immediately label. It swelled inside him like hot air, except more substantial: ten million warm butterflies. All he knew was that he could easily spend the rest of his life running his fingers through that hair. It was a bit ridiculous, the euphoric feeling that came from petting this person, and he was tempted to laugh again until he realized something that should have been obvious.

_This person…._

The Mohawk belonged to a person. And right as he realized that, the rest of that _someone's_ form began to take shape beneath his hand. A man, Kurt could tell from the figure's build. A bit taller than himself, more muscular, yet still slim: broader shoulders than hips. The man's back was to Kurt, and Kurt trailed his hands down the back of the person's neck, waiting; expecting something, probably for the man to break the silence or turn around so Kurt could see his face. When he didn't, Kurt felt a bit disappointed, but also strangely relieved. He was kind of content with just studying the back of the man's form, which was a surprisingly clear image.

They stood there, immobile and silent for an immeasurable amount of time with Kurt's hands on the man's strong shoulders. Solid, Kurt thought as he squeezed the muscles beneath his hands. Even though it was a dream, Kurt could _feel_ the warmth that emanated from the man's back, trapped beneath their two bodies. There was that tingling again, originating from where his hands were in contact with the other man's bare skin, and it traveled up his arms and then down throughout his chest. This time, he registered the sensation's substantial weight and how it faintly felt as if he could throw up a burning rainbow. So pleasant that he was slightly uncomfortable, he felt a sudden need to _do_ something just to release the overwhelming surge of energy.

And then the man moved, and Kurt could feel his glowing presence behind him now. He didn't dare turn around. The whole scene was filled in, and Kurt slowly became aware of the familiar hallways of McKinley High School. The passing students were fuzzy blobs of color; no where near as defined as how the _man_ was. Kurt's back was to the locker-lined wall, but instead of the hard coldness of metal, he felt the heated soft firmness of the Man in his dream. It was oddly familiar, the shape of the Man's chest against Kurt's back. He felt the reassuring pressure of the Man's arms around his waist, and Kurt was engulfed in the Man's strangely familiar scent that he couldn't quite place a name to. Warmth everywhere. Kurt could feel his insides melting into a fuzzy pile of tingling goo. He…wanted…to turn around or something. But the Man's tanned arms were limiting his movements, so Kurt could only turn his head. He tried, but couldn't see the Man's face from this angle, and again he was slightly relieved for some reason even as he waited for…something.

And then, it was there. The man swooped down and kissed him.

And it felt _so real_. The Man's lips were full and soft yet firm, and, like every other part of him Kurt noticed, warm. It was nice. So nice, in fact, that Kurt didn't hesitate to part his lips and poke his tongue out to trace the man's mouth. And when the other man opened his mouth so that his tongue could join Kurt's in a hot, messy tango, Kurt's body exploded. Fire raced down his throat, filled his lungs, constricted his heart. It burned a path through his veins and coiled below his stomach and shot down his legs. His mind was blank except for the almost out-of-body realization that he suddenly knew _exactly_ what he wanted.

The hallways were vacant now except for the two of them, and Kurt was finally able to turn in the Man's embrace. Facing each other for the first time, Kurt still couldn't make out the Man's face because, conveniently, the fluorescent light above their head was knocked out, leaving the two shrouded in shadows that Kurt hadn't noticed before. But that was okay, because they were still making out and it was still freaking hot. Gripping the sparse hair at the back of the Man's head – his fingertips relishing in the thickness of the Mohawk – Kurt easily climbed up the Man's body to wrap his legs around his waist and _oh god_ …the friction was delicious.

Kurt broke the kiss and moaned. The Man gripped Kurt's thighs to hold him up and latched his mouth into the junction between Kurt's jaw and neck. He licked for a minute, sending tingling tremors throughout Kurt's body and adding to the fire, and then he _sucked_...

" _Oh_ _ **Noah**_ _…"_ Kurt moaned in his dream, grinding his hips into the faceless man's.

At that moment, Kurt didn't care. He didn't care that they were standing in the school hallway where anyone could see or that they should have probably been in class. He didn't care about the fact that he somehow knew the Man's name, but not his face. He didn't give any thought as to who 'Noah' even was. All he could think about was the savage heat the burned at the center of his being, dancing and twisting into itself and expanding to numb his limbs and paralyze his organs with passion. The Man's hot breath ghosted over the wet spot on Kurt's neck and caused the paler boy to shiver as a scorching cold sensation shot up his spine and down again, curling his toes behind the Man's back. He took a firmer hold of the Mohawk and forced the Man's head down in a silent demand to continue his administrations.

But then the Man disappeared.

Instantly bewildered and more than slightly annoyed, Kurt had no time to rein in his panting before he was falling.

His breath caught in his throat in a sharp gasp as his precious warmth was cruelly ripped away the further he dropped. Along with the Man, the hallway floor had vanished, and he was left to plummet down through the depths of colliding darkness that one could only find in the transition between dreams. Memories. Years' worth of data stored in his subconscious mind warped around Kurt's suspended dream-form in hybrid combinations of colors, sounds, faces and words. He didn't scream once – though the urge was there – and the silence was musical. Kurt was swallowed up and thoroughly dissolved by the long forgotten taste of his mother's milk and the overwhelming emotions that came with being a soul in a human's body. Love, happiness, truth. He was everything. He was nothing. Time was all that was left. But as it usually happened, in his abstract view of unconsciousness, Kurt wasn't sure if he'd been waiting for milliseconds or millennia before the universe spit him suddenly into another dream-setting.

His dream-eyes were already searching for the Mohawk when they opened.

Where was the Man? And how could he just leave Kurt like that? He was freaking horny, damnit. He already missed the unbelievable softness of the Man's hair and the incredible ember that was his body. His fingertips actually throbbed and his skin felt inflamed against the comparably cooler, heavily sweet-smelling air in his dream. His legs ached, his shoulders trembled, his neck felt too bare, and he badly needed something to rut against _now_ – preferably the Man; most _definitely_ the Man. Most of all, he felt too empty. His chest heaved with needy pants as he tried to push down the rising feeling of incompletion. He missed the Man's hot and slippery tongue. And he shamelessly acknowledged the fact that he wanted – no, _needed_ the Man to fill the suddenly unbearable vacancy of his most intimate orifice. Kurt released a lewd moan as he squirmed uncomfortably on his back, trying to hump the air because for some reason, his arms wouldn't move.

" _Kurt…"_

In the midst of heavy panting, Kurt heard the distant voice and could only gasp in response. The voice was familiar, although he couldn't remember whose voice it was. Eyes flickered restlessly around the new, dimly lit dream scene for the first time. There wasn't much to see, until, lo-and-behold, the Mohawk appeared. A shadow amongst shadows, the man drew forward out of the darkest darkness until his recognizably gorgeous frame was apparent. The Man was still shirtless, and Kurt hissed as he hungrily took in the skin's smoldering – like a stubborn coal – stark against the unimportant background. Beautifully strong and capable column of a neck. Slightly broad, softly curved shoulders. Impressively defined arms and an _oh my god!_ torso: a drool worthy abdomen and _perfect_ pectorals whose mysteriously scarred left nipple only added to the mystical allure and heightened Kurt's arousal. The stupid enigmatic shroud of shadow prevented Kurt from seeing any further down, and he wondered why until he belatedly realized that he was laying on a raised surface. It was cushy beneath his back. A bed. __

_Oh yes…_ Kurt mentally purred in anticipation. The Man was going to finally take him and douse the flames that had ignited in Kurt upon their first contact. Reminded of his current state, his body seemed to burn that much hotter and feel all the more void. He was starting to hate that empty feeling. Bucking his hips up in invitation, Kurt tried to telepathically command him to _come on…_

But whether to __approach Kurt__ , __jump Kurt's buzzing bones_ , _or actually paint Kurt with the reference body fluid ** __** _ ****_, the Man didn't move at all. He only spoke quietly,

" _Kurt…"_

" _You bastard!"_ was the first response that left Kurt's sharp mouth. Because he was _beyond_ horny at this point, and he just couldn't wait any longer. The Man thankfully started to move closer, causing Kurt's heart to drum heavily and his arousal to spike almost painfully, but then he __stopped__ again.

" _Kurt."_

" _No!"_ Kurt snapped, wanting there to be no talking. For the first time, he wasn't filled with that strange relief of not being able to see the man's face, because now he couldn't make eye contact through which to deliver an impatient glare. The fact that the Man's face was censored and that Kurt still couldn't move his arms to even try to relieve himself or – better – attack the man, was now an unfortunate hindrance. Unfortunate, because the man moved closer to where Kurt lay only to stop and try to speak _again._

" _Kurt?"_

 _Damn this man._ Kurt fixed his glare on the Mohawk instead. Why was his sweet, wondrously soft and beloved Mohawk denying him what he wanted now? Kurt wasn't angry, but he was sure as hell frustrated. Resuming his attempts to rut the air in an unsubtle _, _totally obvious_ _ invitation, Kurt once again refused to hold conversation until after sex in the most eloquent way he knew how, with his brain muddled by lust and limited by the uncertainty of unconsciousness. __The simplest of words._ "No!"_

Maybe glaring at the Mohawk was the key, as the Man finally erased the rest of the distance until he was hovering over Kurt on the bed. Kurt easily spread his legs for his Man to settle in between, and the delicious heat he'd been craving finally returned to swirl and reverberate between them. But it wasn't close enough. Kurt, having regained mobility, wrapped his arms around his Man's neck and his legs around his waist, lifting his hips to grind his agonizing arousal against his partner's. Kurt surged upward to capture his lips and attack his tongue in a sloppy but determined battle to recapture their earlier moments of passion. He also did it to muffle his moan at the sudden _"oh_ _ **Noah**_ _…god, that feels amazing"_ pleasurable pressure.

It felt _so fucking real_ ….

"Kurt?"

His Man broke the kiss, and Kurt actually whined because not only had his Man stopped kissing him, but he'd also stopped the grinding of their lower bodies. _And right when it was getting good!_ Kurt's body was buzzing with unreleased sexual tension, and he was already so far gone and lost in the throes of passion that his vision was starting to blur. He felt feverish, and the burning rainbows ribbons were again threatening to burst forth from him – but not from his mouth this time – and he was _this_ close to the edge; so close that he'd already made a mental 'Will' in preparation for the jump. He'd planned to leave his smoking hot body for his Man to do with as he pleased when his soul was taken to the highest clouds of ecstasy. And this was how he was repaid? The audacity!

" _NO!"_ Kurt called out, trusting the finality in his tone to end this foolish procrastination, and he reached up to take hold of the Mohawk to resume his indulgence. He loved that Mohawk….

"KURT! Kurt, wake UP!"

And as it usually happened, the abrupt shove back into hyperawareness of reality was more painful than any locker-shove he'd ever been misfortunate enough to experience. _Wait,_ he tried to plead, but it didn't work. The heat, the warmth, the peace and security. The safety. The love, happiness, and truth that made up his entire dream universe were cruelly snatched away in a rushed blur of dark colors and static, leaving him devastatingly cold. Bare. Vulnerable and aching, and not at all in the good way. His head spun from the sudden torrent of logical thoughts as 'awake' brain-processed rebooted at a sickeningly rapid pace. Everything in the real world was too loud and mindless. There was a pounding at the entire base of his skull, and he gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes impossibly tighter to ward away the torturously cold stabbing sensation. Fortunately, it subsided quickly, and Kurt visibly relaxed as he was left with only the aftertaste of a headache.

"Um…Kurt? You okay boo?"

Kurt immediately recognized Mercedes' voice, and he sighed. That's right, he remembered. They were on a plane. Back to Lima. After losing Nationals. In New York. Possibly because of his step-brother and his girlfriend. Although New York had been amazing. And he wanted to go back. Were they home yet? He was tired. He felt…kind of off. Like he was missing…oh! Wait, the dream! He still had it! There was a man. He was _really_ sexy. And they'd been just about to…oh _why?_ _Why_ had he had to wake up before…?

Wait, no, he was already starting to lose it; he had to be! Why couldn't he remember the man's face? Or his name? And when had he first seen him? What had been said? And wait, when had he even fallen _asleep_? …Damnit. All he really remembered was…something about…like, something about a…

Mohawk?

"Kurt?"

Kurt opened his eyes.

And there it was. There _he_ was. With a face, that Kurt could actually see because it was facing him, locking his gaze over the back of the airplane seat that separated them, hazel eyes with Kurt's own glasz. A face that Kurt could actually see because it wasn't obscured by ominous and seductive shadows. A face that Kurt could actually see – and not only see but _recognize_ – because he was awake.

Noah Puckerman.

"You okay, dude?" Puck – _"Oh Noah..."_ _–_ was asking him, dark eyebrows actually furrowed in concern. Concern? Oh yeah, that's right…Kurt may have hated his Mohawk before he fell asleep, but he hadn't hated Noah. He'd never hated Noah, and hadn't even been able to because he hadn't _known_ Noah. Nobody had. They'd only known "Puck", up until recently, as they silently watched him suffocate within Lauren's tight grip. But yes, Noah was actually prone to shown concern – _care –_ for his fellow Gleeks when he realized that something was seriously wrong – because apparently, yeah, Noah possessed a perceptive side, too.

"Yeah Kurt, _are_ you alright? You're kind of scaring me." Kurt automatically shifted his gaze to the left, where his closer friend was watching him with an expression of equal concern, and also a silent promise to smack him to his senses if he didn't answer him soon. When they made eye contact, her frown deepened. She reached a manicured hand up to feel his cheek. Kurt always secretly loved 'Cedes' hands because of their warm color and warm temperature. But when her skin touched his this time, it felt cold. "Honey, are you sick?"

"W-what?" Kurt's eyes widened just a bit wider at the sound of his own voice, which sounded deeper than it normally did, even after just awaking. He swallowed and cleared his throat before continuing, wondering where the unusual huskiness came from. He spoke this time with his usual musical grace and even offered a smile. "No. No, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"Well…" Mercedes' dark eyes roamed around his face thoroughly and her hand moved to feel his forehead as her gaze resettled in his eyes. "You're like, _really_ hot. And I don't mean fresh off the runway. Your skin's all flushed. And…you look kind of…no offense at all, boo, because you're actually sort of glowing, but you look a bit…wild."

Kurt quirked a perfectly arched eyebrow, not really sure of what to make of Mercedes' observations. Well, he probably would know what to make of them, but that's only if he dared to glance back at _the Mohawk_ and be reminded of his dreams…which he wasn't about to do. "I'm fine, 'Cedes. Really. You know how body temperature rises while you're asleep. Mine is still cooling, is all."

Mercedes raised a brow this time, slightly pursing her glossy full lips. "Mhm…But I thought we learned in Bio that our body temperature _drops_ in our sleep."

"Oh, yeah. But then it rises again when we wake up, remember? So…yeah." Kurt tried to recover quickly. It was a fail, partially because he was still kind of disoriented and couldn't remember which one of them was actually right. Mercedes looked far from convinced and stared at him pointedly, probably wondering why he even tried to lie to her when she could always tell when he did, especially when his cover-ups flopped so epically. Kurt wondered why he tried himself.

"What's _really_ up, boo?" Mercedes asked after a moment, during which she dropped her hand from his face and rested it on his arm. "You were twitching a lot and breathing like, super hard. And I think you were muttering something but I couldn't hear…And then you said 'no'. Are you…" She stopped before _okay_ and changed the question. "Is it something you want to talk about?"

Kurt fought against the urge to fluster. Mercedes had _heard_. Well, she hadn't actually heard, but she could have. And if she could have possibly heard, did that mea _ _n that Puck__ could have, since he sat right in front of Kurt? Suppressing the train of thought that would undoubtedly cause him stress and subsequently cause him to suffer the ugly consequence that was bad skin, Kurt took a deep breath before smiling easily at his girl. "I'm alright, 'Cedes. I truly appreciate your concern, but it was…just a dream. That's it." _Even though it felt impossibly real…._

Mercedes looked at him calculatingly for a few seconds, watching the relaxed contours of his face. There weren't any of the usual telltale signs that he was trying to fib his way out, although some warm pink still colored his otherwise pale, smooth cheeks. His eyes still bore that wild brightness to them that the dark-skinned diva had only seen in people who'd just got laid, but if Kurt said that it was just a dream, then she would drop it. Sure she was still curious, but if she was one to voice _every_ single question she'd ever had for the boy, then he would've undeniably been tired of her by now. So instead of asking what kind of dream and what had happened to make him so uncharacteristically disoriented that he hadn't even started worrying over his (albeit still perfect) hair yet, Mercedes smiled trustingly at him. "Just a dream?"

Kurt nodded, relief flooding his veins. "Just a dream."

"…Must've been a pretty good dream, dude."

Kurt nearly bit his tongue when his teeth snapped together. Mercedes, who was slightly surprised to realize that _he_ had still been listening, glanced to the seat in front of Kurt. Kurt didn't want to, and he hesitated, but he made himself turn wide eyes to _the Mohawk_ , who was still twisted in his seat to face Kurt. Kurt should've known he'd been listening the whole time, especially after Kurt pretty much ignored him – and he had every reason to want to, but Noah didn't need to know that.

"Excuse me?" Kurt inquired, repossessing his usual casual yet elegant air of nonchalance. Although on the inside, a warm something stroked his heart when his eyes landed on the Mohawk. He stared there, not meeting his opposite's eyes. He kind of started to wish that Noah's face was missing again just so Kurt wouldn't have to feel like he was being watched so closely.

Noah apparently allowed himself to borrow some of the old "Puck's" personality whenever there wasn't an actual problem to deal with, because now he was smirking that signature Puckerman smirk and raising the equally famous Puckerman brow – a combination that indicated his amusement. Kurt was making a bit of a point not to look at his face, and so he didn't see when the Mohawked teen's eyes glanced downward at Kurt's lap, as they had been frequently while Mercedes fussed over Kurt's surplus amount of blood in hi __s more northern regions.

"Oh," Noah continued, and _god,_ Kurt wondered if his voice had always sounded so alluringly seductive whenever he was amused. "I was just saying. It must've been one hell of a dream for you to be balancing your 'Sky' magazine like that." And he jutted his perfect chin subtly in the direction of his source of amusement.

Kurt and Mercedes simultaneously looked down at said magazine in Kurt's lap. Mercedes eyebrows raised in slight shock and an obvious amusement that matched Puck's, while Kurt's eyes widened in instant mortification, his jaw actually dropping – which he'd usually consider an exaggerated reaction. Kurt's cheeks steadily returned to the feverish rosy red he'd been sporting when he'd woken up, except this time it was embarrassment that flushed through his veins, and his mind had automatically shut down which prevented him from responding with something witty. Or responding at all. The "Sky" magazine he'd been reading before he'd drifted off was now at a telltale angle on his lap, tilting steeply as the half nearest his body was being pushed upward from underneath by something insistent. Kurt had been so distracted trying to hide the truth in his face that he'd forgotten about the truth in his lap. Making a sound of indignity, Kurt drew his knees up slightly and moved the magazine so that the bulge of his crotch was hidden from view. Having nothing else to hide his flaming face with besides his best friend's shoulder, he settled for that, keeping his face turned away from _him_ even as he mumbled a belated and humiliated "shut up, Puckerman".

In front of him, Puck just shrugged, and his wicked smirk disappeared, being replaced by a soft comfort-offering smile that only Mercedes saw because Kurt was too busy dying of obvious discomfort. "Chill, dude. It happens to all of us." Noah said almost quietly. And then he turned around; the person over the intercom told people to get ready for landing, which meant sitting properly with seatbelts on. Because despite how reckless Puck used to be, he was at least more considerate of the rules now to know that you don't shit around with potential plane crashes.

Mercedes, bemusement still visible on her countenance – mostly still from Kurt, but also more recently from Puck's oddly gentle expression – patted her boy's shoulder soothingly before nudging him to put his seatbelt on. She didn't say anything about his ever-present boner or his ever-present blush, nor did she point out his indiscreet glances up at the back of Puck's head. Instead, she busied herself with her own seatbelt and stuffed yet more questions into 'Kurt's Korner' of her brain.

Meanwhile, Kurt scowled down at the innocent magazine in his lap and took his frustration out on his equally innocent seat belt, jamming in the buckle a little more forcefully than necessary. Because he knew that the cheerily scandalous articles printed on bright, glossy paper were only a cover-up for his own great shame. And no matter how well hidden Kurt's arousal was from the rest of the world, two people already knew it was there, though they didn't know why. But Kurt did. Because as he shifted to adjust his seatbelt and magazine to ensure that he was covered, he felt the sticky friction inside of his pants. And he felt the incessant beating of burning butterfly wings in his chest. He felt himself step carefully out over the edge, throwing caution to the wind, marking the beginning of what was sure to be a long and nerve-wracking descent before a devastatingly painful albeit beautiful crash at the bottom.

Because when Kurt fell, he fell hard. And he was already starting to fall for Noah Puckerman, all thoughts of the loss at Nationals, senior year, and his _boyfriend_ – who was waiting for him back home – far from his mind. All he could think of, as the plane gave a violent lurch that mirrored his heart's motions, was the stupid Mohawk.

The stupid, soft to the touch, totally-pet-worthy and totally-sexy Mohawk that had suddenly become his favorite hairstyle.


End file.
